The stream (all workshops)
When another makes the effort
To reach out and touch someone
There are ears that listen
To the message in all sum
No matter the rejection
Keep trying to be heard
Just try and try again
Someone reads your word
Loving and being loved
It’s not easy, so I’m told
In a world that does not hear
In a world that’s cold
There is warmth here, in some hearts
for those who pay attention
Just who they are and where
There is no need to mention
All he does is sit all day
before a window looking out,
what little hair he has is gray.
I wonder what he thinks about.
That window fronts on a small wood
there behind the nursing home.
He'd love to walk there if he could
as in his youth he used to roam.
But he is stuck in his wheel chair;
a stroke and bad hips keep him bound.
His eyes tell he'd rather be out there
beneath the trees on shaded ground.
words coinage
poetic
creativity
challenge
rhyme
rhythm
sound of music
praise self
by
others the vivacious:
in a foggy fjord
a monk, turned warlord,
was starcrossed
by a second fate
rightous victory waned
like cold crystal diamond fire
in the big blue ice
cue up despair
like a bitter old man
like the three sorrows
that are Jerusalem
like dark houses
in mourning and rembrance
time for the big empty
wait!
a plan
a daring escape
impetuous
but, for him, as inevitable as death for all others
The Wild Side Of Oblivion
Meet me on the wild side of oblivion
By shadowed moonlight
we can play at being what we will never be
by day
Smoke filled skies
essence of dust filled dreams
astride a pure white stallion
with lightening hooves
In fields of poppies and lavender
petals for a bed
there to sleep between rain drops
and be as one
Only on the wild side of oblivion
The narrative of the occlusion speaks
in the name of god
and judgment reeks of the heaven-sent.
The eye turns inward.
How can humans be so deluded when
they possess opposing thumbs? The
monkey hurls the bone and as if
scattering ants on an ancient tree
ready to break out in war
we choose our side aided by
the
complexity gene,
patterns within patterns within
nothing at all.
nebulous wandering
over epochs of eternities
time
heaping unto us
infinite
nows
gifting our becoming
interweaving
souls into a
wonder of miracles
orbiting aeons
rhythmically
tracing sketches and profiles of
heroes and heroines
manifesting in an
orgy of
revolution, turmoil
entities colliding
transmuting
happiness and sorrow
and in this particular
now
tide moved to encourage, and
hour
in its infinite wisdom
supported my plea, so
THE CONFESSIONS OF A SPIDER
I confess
The moment wasn’t my best
I sat down beside her
for I did lust for her curves
and waves.
as I made my way
to lay
my head upn her breats
suddenly a hand sent me
into a spin
and I could sin
no more
It's not easy being a spider
in love.
simply wasted breath
The elite poets have already spoken
being adept at free verse
not boasting of being a poet at all,
I feel you have the potential
of the highest mountain,
shielding a volcano to explode.
and explode you must,
as well as explore
beyond the realms
of the poetic constraints
Shakespeare wouldn't have been living till today,
had he stifled himself
with poetic limitations
In which we prefer to chain...
This ain't about advancing age
or its affect on strength and stride
I'll not write such on this page
this old fart has too much pride
None want to hear of loss of hair
how it migrates to back and ears
why would anybody even care
to hear about the late night fears
Who cares about loved ones now passed
or the ever shrinking pool of friends
the worry that I'll be the last
of my classmates to reach their ends
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